


A Taste for Death

by Amariel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Murder, musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 02:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7995772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amariel/pseuds/Amariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cairo, December 1948. Tom Riddle quotes poetry and has no morals whatsoever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Taste for Death

The house was comfortably cool, even in the dry, blistering heat of December. An old wooden fan in the cracked plaster ceiling moved unevenly with a creaking sound that possibly indicated that it could fall down any minute.

He wished he had something to drink and snapped his fingers to get the old crone's attention. She cringed, when he barked out an order, and he took some pleasure in seeing her limp towards the kitchen with the slightly jerky movements of someone still resisting the Imperius curse.

He had the scrolls he had come for, so why was he still in the old wizard's home? Why had he spared the life of the old woman, while her husband or possibly employer, he didn't know which and didn't care much anyway, lay on the rug at the other side of the desk. His life bled out from a cut throat, pooling in the crevices in the floor stones. An undignified way to kill, and not really what he preferred, but the old sod hadn't been expecting a knife and he'd had to leave his wand in the hands of the crone before he entered the old wizard's room. Wizards could be so stupid sometimes, never expecting to be harmed by something as crude as a Muggle switchblade. The old crone gave him his wand back, of course, and would even have cut the old man's throat herself, had he willed it.

He didn't open the scrolls, since he already knew that he wouldn't understand a word in them. But he knew what they were. Ancient secrets to die for. Or to kill for, in this case.

The old wizard had been very reluctant, even showing them to him. But a sack full of galleons and a letter of commendation from a respected trader in ancient wizarding artefacts made him change his mind. He hadn't told the old wizard that the trader had provided a good meal for a couple of crocodiles soon after sealing the letter.

The crone showed up with a glass of tea that smelled strongly of mint. He almost put the cup to his lips, but changed his mind and made her taste it instead. She resisted but his will was stronger. He was a bit irritated that she could resist the curse enough to try to poison him.

He would have to research this. He needed something stronger, more binding and compelling, something you couldn't resist. He gathered the scrolls, suddenly eager to leave the messy deaths in the house behind. As the old woman sank to the floor, he walked out the door.

Later he sat at a wizarding café in the Khan-el-Khalili Souk, with a cup of strong, sweet, almost syrupy coffee, the wooden case with the scrolls a comforting weight against his leg.

He still thought occasionally of himself as Tom, but never gave any other name than Voldemort nowadays. Tom had a long list of places to go and magics he wanted to master. He had started the list during his second year at Hogwarts, when he realised that there was a whole world out there, filled with darkness and power, available to those who dared to look for it. During the three short years that had passed since he left Hogwarts, it felt like he had barely scratched the surface of Africa, but it was time to move on. He had strengthened his powers in the blood rituals of the Obeeyah, learned the secrets of the Juju priests on the Ivory Coast, been introduced to the poisons and powders and the spirit possessions of the Malagasy Trombas. With the powers in the scrolls, the secrets he had been searching for years, he would go on to learn the arcane rites of the Voodoun, study Candomble in Brazil and travel to the Nag-Begs in Kashmir, where Parselmouths were revered and communication with snakes was not considered a stigma. 

The sound of people speaking English drew closer. He had managed to avoid most tourists, but they seemed to increase in numbers now, when the borders were open again. Tom sank down in his chair and pulled the black hood of his djellaba further down. It wouldn't do to be recognised by someone from Hogwarts. He didn't plan to return to England. At least not until the circumstances surrounding his departure didn't matter anymore and the Ministry pawns would have other things to concern themselves with than questioning him about a couple of Muggle murders. But he planned to return one day and didn't want to draw attention to himself in advance, before he was ready. 

In his fantasies everyone would tremble in fear when he came back. He would return under his other name; a name free from the foul taint of Muggle. He pictured himself as a gigantic, radiant power, shattering mirrors and cracking stone floors with every step. Other small insignificant beings would scurry and scatter like ants, cowering in fright at the mere sound of his footsteps. Those he found worthy would gather in his shadow, like knights at the second coming of Arthur. He thought briefly that this kind of fantasies was probably unhealthy, but Tom hadn't been particularly concerned about healthy things for a long time

One thing the cowards always feared was Necromancy. The mere word made him shiver in anticipation. A strange feeling, quite unfamiliar. He hadn't felt like this since he found a way to get into the Restricted Section of the library at Hogwarts. There he found the Dark Arts books, the ones he studied and learned by heart right under the noses of the old fool Dippet and the meddlesome idiot Dumbledore.

The anticipation he felt so close to unlocking the secret of the scrolls was related to the way children felt before Christmas, he thought, eagerly waiting to open piles of presents. The way he would have felt when he grew up if he had been in a proper wizarding home, instead of a foul place where all days were alike and Christmas was only a word. 

He had always known he was destined for something else, something better. Even after he came to Hogwarts. It was never enough. There were other secrets, deeper and darker than the feeble magic they taught. 

He caught a glimpse of the wizard who had promised to take him to someone who could translate the scrolls, making his way around the tables and chairs of the café. This wizard and the translator would probably both be dead before dawn. When you strove for ultimate power, death was unavoidable, and like the sweltering desert heat, not even regrettable. Tom only hoped that he could use his wand the next time.

He was suddenly reminded of line from a poem he once read in the meagre library at the orphanage. The collection of poems, romancing sadness, sorrow, and death, seemed like a strange comfort when the summer seemed endless and the real world too far away. 

Tom had never found the thought of his own death enticing or romantic. If death was enticing in any way, it was the deaths of others. He made endless lists of detailed methods of revenge, of how specific transgressions, slights and insults would be dealt with. Hate had fuelled his ambitions for a very long time, but his ambitions had broadened and became more satisfying as his power and knowledge grew. At least the bodies he left in his wake didn't bother him as much now as they did in the beginning, when he still had nightmares where pale ghosts tore at his clothes, scratched his flesh and tried to drag him down in murky sludge-filled swamps. Not much bothered Tom anymore. 

He mouthed the words of the poem silently, like a comforting prayer, as if he still had the need for comfort of any kind. He almost chuckled at the mere thought.

_There's this to say for blood and breath, they give a man a taste for death._

**Author's Note:**

> Quote from a poem by A.E. Housman. Some things, like the title of this story, are blatantly borrowed from the Peter O'Donnell book by the same name. The mentions of Magic practices are, as far as I know, at least geographically correct.
> 
> Written for Voldemort Appreciation Day at the H/D Advent Calendar One Chocolate Frog a Day on LJ 2004. Previously published at Skyehawke.


End file.
